


look inside my skull, im not thinking at all

by orphan_account



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ?? ig, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Fear, Gen, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pain, Screaming, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Time - Freeform, Werewolf Transformations, Whump, but like bad times guys, graphic gore, lowkey going insane but not really, trans boy ciri, trans ciri, unstable stare of mind, uuh idk what to tag, werewolf geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23615980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: But it always ends the same.Horror. Screams. And the same fucking pain. The feeling of shattered, growing bones, organs splashing and mixing with blood, skin stretching thin like cow hide, and hell.Always the same. Always endless time and loneliness that tries to kill him even when Ciri tries to be by his side every way and Triss’s healing touch. It hurts - almost as much as the transformation (“werewolf,” she says.)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	look inside my skull, im not thinking at all

**Author's Note:**

Time melts together like candles swapping wax and spit in kiss. It becomes wet and hot, burning his skin when his to gold eyes open and unknown emotion fires his body to attack, to mourn, to howl. To do something. To move and snap chains and feast into his pain aND DESTROY. It blurs and empties and fulls and candles melt onto wooden floor painting it with the red and brown already sleeping on it. 

The candles flickering, and the dripping - Time is his friend and enemy. It tells him the hours his blood has cooled and boiled. It screams into his eyes until they crawl out of their sockets. Geralt feels sanity slipping out of his pores with every second. Feels the suffering and stench of kiss of wax and murmmurs that become background noise directly stabs into his ears. The change of shadows and light from the window brings him hope and pain. It provides tortuous kindness that licks his skin till he bleeds. 

At some point, in a blurry wake he looks down to his arms, to much hair and to much grime and blood. He sees scars and dried blood. It winks at him, a whispered order and he licks his canines. It smiles, and he flexes his arm. He feels the pain and rippled scab and grins at the sight. Craving for self destruction and a gore death resonates in him because he is a MONSTER! MONSTER!

Something inside him barks for more at the sight and the thoughts pacing in his mind like hummingbirds desperate for a flower on it a last breathe. He want to bleed. He wants more then just blood. more. More. MORE BLOOD, MORE PAIN, MORE SUFFERING.

Geralt moves his arm to bite the same red mark on his fleshed bone but chains rattle, keeping him still, yet he continues anyways. Chains rattle again and again, telling him to stop STOP. But he does not care, he is hungry for pain because time is endless, and he is a monster. Geralt moves his arm. He cannot move his arm. 

Fury at being unable to move, teeth like razor blades beg for the iron taste of injury. There’s a crack of metal and pulls with all his strength because he needs to bite to bite to BITE TO BITE. 

The chains cry out when he tugs his arm to his ravenous mouth. Time rewinds and pain is lighting him up on fire like a witch on trial. Ribs slit into two pieces and muscles separate and devide and an unknow limb extends like a snakes stomach and he SCREAMS - HOWLS LIKE AN ANIMAL. 

A

A

A

A

H  
H

H  
H

H

.

...

.

!

“G- Ger-“ 

BLOOD. PAIN. 

WOLF? 

“G E R A L T !” 

A language he onced knew is spoken from a distorted female voice. He screeches at the memories it triggers (red hair. purple eyes. abandonment.). Then, everything slows down yet speeds up and there’s a solid thunk. Geralt feels darkness pulls him down as he hears distant panting and smell of salty tears. Everything stops and Geralt forgets - Geralt sleeps, becomes unconscious. 

....

..

.

(they tell him what happened. how he lost control. broke the chains. slipped into monster. how he tried to attack his own child once a touch met his fragile skin. he was tearing his arm apart but luckily triss was able to heal it stop any real damage. an ache to last forever but no scar like the others. ciri stares at him with concern and fear for geralt and it kills him. he wishes he reached for his throat and not his arm. maybe this torture and pain would stop. maybe.) 

Loneliness eats at fat, making him become thinner and destranged, his mind shatters. The shards, covered in blood matter, glue itself back together into a wolf, and he feels his teeth sharper then a monster’s hiss dig blood out from his lip. He feel the demand for spilled crimson and meat, to attack, to kill. He is lonely - stuck with his self, so he growls under the sheltered night and silently feeds. Nails extend into claws and he bawls his hands, blood leeks like a faucet, dripping silently, A call for the beginning of an internal transformation. 

But it always ends the same. 

Horror. Screams. And the same fucking pain. The feeling of shattered, growing bones, organs splashing and mixing with blood, skin stretching thin like cow hide, and hell. 

Always the same. Always endless time and loneliness that tries to kill him even when Ciri tries to be by his side every way and Triss’s healing touch. It hurts - almost as much as the transformation (“werewolf,” she says.) 

“I don’t know,” whispers Ciri. The boy slips his hand into his claws graps, and it feels natural yet unholy. It shouldn’t be like this. 

Geralt tilts his head, and asks, “about what?” 

The boy sighs and looks at his father. He looks far to old for his years, and the dark circles under his blue eyes have gotten heavier. He’s too young to experience this. 

“I don’t if we’re doing the right thing,” admits Ciri, “if chaining you up is in the right.” 

Geralt aches to ruffle his unruly hair and say it will he fine but he cannot. He is chained and is a burden to his own son. He is hurting - traumatizing his own child (it makes him so terribly sick. the boy has gone through to much.). 

The restricted man settles for rubbing his son’s hand with his thumb and confesses, “I don’t know either, but it keeps you both the most safe.” 

A tear falls from Ciri’s face and a whimper leaves Geralt. They looks at each other before Ciri looks away, ashamed, and mumbles, “I wished it wasn’t like this.” 

A small hand clutches onto his (he flinches and wants to beg, “don’t.” but he allows it. anything for ciri.), and Geralt exhales. 

It is sad and slow, yet inescapable, the moment between them. He feels the wax on his back, and the forever pacing of paws in his mind. 

“Me too, son. But,” he says, “it will be alright. Soon enough.” 

Ciri lets out a broken sound and sobs. It hurts - gods does it hurt. The noise feels like being skinned alive, feels like bones breaking all over again, feels like a target inside his heart. 

For once, he allows himself to give, fear scraping his pulse, and squeezes Ciri’s hand. 

Distance is a painful thing. It never leaves, no longer how short or far - it is there, traveling along the skull of your mind. Geralt cries silently and watches as Ciri turns into dust and will have to watch him rebuild himself again. 

And loneliness will still eat away at him even when his child is there screaming with pain. 

Damn werewolves.


End file.
